The day Benjamin Laugherly was born, a new star was named in the Universe. The newspaper headlines made no note of Benjamin on March 11, though. Why would they? But his mother kept that day’s newspaper for a lifetime. She was a sentimental woman filled with vigor for savoring evidence of serendipity.
A hand-painted ceramic box next to her bed contained the first rose her husband gave her, a pink rosary from her mother (along with her funeral prayer card), and other bits and bobbles. The newspaper clipping from the day Benjamin was born was always pinned to the bottom. And on top of everything gently sat sunglasses, unique and unassuming.
Benjamin’s fascination with the glasses grew with each year he did. He would never know their connection to the newspaper, or the true meaning of them to his mother. But they had a meaning to him that no one else could understand or own.